Repentant
by Shizuku Tsukishima749
Summary: -Oliver Twist.- Dodger had done many terrible things in his life, but none so terrible as taking part in the kidnapping of his best friend. Oliver/Dodger friendship.
1. Betrayed

_A/N: _This is my first "Oliver Twist" chapter fic. Yes, I know I'm probably killing all of you with the three "Oliver Twist" stories in the span of a technical two and 1/3 or so days, but I just _can't stop _thinking of the Dodger/Oliver friendship possibilities... XD Sorry! Anyway, here's chapter one, and I've already got a slight handle on chapter two, which will probably be up later today. (I know: you're all thinking, 'kill me now!' XD)

Again, this is based on my interpretations of the scenes and characters of the 1997 made-for-TV movie, so anything you don't recognize directly from that is my expansion. Most of this and my other stories _are _all expansion, though, so no suing is needed. lol.

Word of warning (as always): though this is not intended to be slash (those who enjoy it are welcome to plug away as they wish, however), Dodger and Oliver _do _have an immensely strong/-innocently-intimate-at-times relationship in each of my stories. It is strictly meant as friendship, though, and will never go beyond that.

_Disclaimer: _I do not own "Oliver Twist"/Oliver Twist. As far as I know, Charles Dickens and 'The Wonderful World of Disney' (Disney Productions or ABC?) do.

* * *

This chapter was inspired by:

"Oliver _won't peach_. He's not like that…"

Dodger had faith in him, even if the rest of them didn't.

* * *

**Repentant**

He didn't want to hear this, didn't want to be _here_. He didn't understand why he was needed anyway; Sykes, Fagin, and Nancy were perfectly capable of hatching a plan to…to kidnap Oliver…

He shuddered and swallowed the bile threatening to rise in his throat. How could they _do _this? He knew _why_…

It was his fault Oliver had gotten caught, after all. He had been the one to tell him to steal from the wealthy gent—Mr. Brownlow, he remembered from the courthouse—when he knew it was better to do a first-time nabbing in the crowded square. He'd just wanted to see if his prized protégé could do it…

He would admit, if strictly to himself and Oliver, that something in the back of his mind had cried out to him when his friend had ducked behind the man. Alarm bells had gone off, shrilly and clearly, so he hadn't even heard the bloke's niece sound the warning. He'd merely run to grab the expensive watch Oliver had been trying to steal, taken the boy's hand in his own, and begun the chase that he would dearly regret only forty-five seconds later.

He had tried to keep Oliver safe, he truly had, but his efforts had been futile the second that fish merchant had the sense to glance at the right corner at the right time. Seeing Oliver being dragged away had been the worst thing he'd ever witnessed in his seventeen years, and he'd seen plenty that others would argue was a million times more horrific.

He might have agreed with them, too, if that boy hadn't been the one thing he'd actually cared about with all of his heart since he was nine. Oliver Twist, though such a goody-goody, had become what the rest of the boys, differing according to age group and level of received or dished teasing, took as either his best friend or little brother. They knew he loved him.

Fagin and Nancy saw it, too, though he wasn't afraid of that.

Nancy, being such a beautiful, kind soul at heart, understood and adored their close relationship; she had relayed to him once that it was the loveliest thing she'd seen since she… She had trailed after that, but he could guess.

Fagin, at least on some level, understood as well. When he watched the two out of the corner of his eye sometimes, Dodger could swear he saw the twinkle of a smile on his face. It was the strangest thing, but it was almost as if the man _respected _their bond.

Sykes, though…they tried to keep it from him as best they could. Dodger had warned Oliver to hide many a time when they had been together and heard Sykes coming. Being so companionable around the man would have been a perilous move for them both, but especially for Oliver.

For some reason, Bill Sykes had always hated Dodger. He had never known of anything he did to merit such rabid dislike from the man, but he also knew the feeling was mutual. The menace remained in place, though: if he ever found out about how he felt for Oliver, there would be heck to pay.

He wouldn't rough him up too badly, maybe a broken bone or six, but Oliver…Sykes would get to Dodger by seriously hurting the kid or—more than likely—worse, and he couldn't let that happen. He _wouldn't_.

When once asked why he was so protective of Oliver by the gang's next oldest boy, he'd simply answered with one of the fondest smiles the lad had ever seen from him and stated the truth: _he needs me_.

What he hadn't said had been plain, so the boy had left it. Dodger needed Oliver just as much.

He vaguely heard the mentions of him and a group of the boys following Oliver on his way to town one day soon, how Nancy would then meet up with him and lead him to the alley, where Sykes would be waiting to drag him in and 'quiet' him.

"And you, Jack Dawkins, get the most important task of all…" Sykes's foreboding words and sadistic laugh brought him to attention again, and his heart sunk. No, _please_… "_You_ will have the gunny sack where Oliver will be put once we've 'taken care of him', eh? We'll get him back here just as we would a sack of potatoes!" Dodger glared at the man heatedly; couldn't he see he wanted no part in this? "Sorry, pup. You ain't gettin' out of this one."

He peered down to see Sykes's fingers tapping something hidden beneath his coat; specifically, where his gun was concealed.

Comprehending the implications of such an action, Dodger barely held himself back from reaching into the jacket and pulling the trigger on himself. Sykes was going to _kill _Oliver if he didn't cooperate, meaning…

Oh, dear Jiminy, he had found out! But—but _how_?

Then, not understanding why, he remembered the boy who'd questioned him about his behavior toward Oliver. There had been something _wrong _about him, though he hadn't recognized it then. When he thought back to the lad's eyes, he understood: they had glowed with the same, murderous light that never left Sykes's.

He only now recalled that he was the fiend's favorite.

How could he have been so _stupid_?

"Yeah, that's right, Dodger," He could still hear Sykes through the hands that covered his ears, and he pressed harder. His own eyes were tightly shut in denial. "I _know_…"

* * *

Hours later, those words rang in his head. The moon high in the sky as he lay sprawled on his bed, the rest of the boys were asleep, Nancy and her devilish beau having gone long ago.

~Oliver was officially his weakness.~

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_A/N: _Thanks for reading!


	2. Snatched

_A/N: _I told you! Another chapter in the same day! lol. As you can hopefully tell by now, this story is going to go in chronological order.

For the millionth time: Dodger/Oliver friendship, unless you prefer otherwise.

* * *

This chapter was inspired by:

Dodger watches as Oliver gets dragged away by Sykes and Nancy.

He _hates _this.

* * *

He trailed Oliver with the boys the next day, though everything apart from the now well-dressed-and-groomed boy was a blur. He kept his eyes on his back, the boy's form a small bit thicker than he remembered; he was relieved to see this new family was feeding him well. He deserved the best, after all.

Even so, he wasn't going to get the best, not today. Today and innumerable days afterward, he was going to get the worst, and then some. There was no going back, no way _to _go back, and that was what scared him the most.

What if Oliver hated him for participating in this, never mind that he was doing it to keep him safe? What if he shook him off and never spoke to him again, never _looked _at him again? What if he _lost _him?

That last thought made his eyes burn and head spin, but they soon cleared when he saw Nancy up ahead. She was so beautiful, _too_ beautiful to be mixed up in the dealings of a murderer and cheater like Bill Sykes. She was a butterfly caught in a spider's web, and he knew as well as she did that there was no getting out once caught.

He prayed more fervently than he had in all his life that Oliver would not fall into the same trap of deceit and day-to-day discontentment. He didn't deserve that. He deserved so much better than he was getting even now.

Seeing his…_cue _as Nancy began walking toward Oliver, he sprinted to stand on the alley entrance's other side. He could only wait now, holding his breath, and not hearing the words Nancy spoke to Oliver as she got a reluctant, though tight grip on his shoulders and forced him to walk with her.

He could hear the boy protesting—in all reality, it was the only thing he _could _hear—and struggling to get away, though it was obvious he was happy to see his Mother figure again.

When he saw and was grabbed roughly by Sykes, however, one hand hard pressed over his mouth, his eyes were wide. Paling until he was the color of his snow-white collar and twisting in all manners to try to get away, he shrieked all the while.

Due to one of those maneuvers, their eyes locked. Freezing, they stared into the utter depths of the other's soul. The only thing Dodger wished for Oliver to see was how much he hated this, how _sorry _he was for everything.

He was finding what he had already known with Oliver: fear, confusion, and panic at what was happening, betrayal at seeing him there… Was he dreaming? He swore he saw the betrayal changing before his eyes into something he couldn't quite place. It looked akin to…acceptance, though, understanding, and he didn't know why he suddenly felt so relieved.

Abruptly, he noticed Sykes's face contorting, and he had no choice but to look away from his friend's hazel orbs. The man was grinning in that wicked, scarier-than-anything way of his, and he shuddered as his horrible eyes traveled down to the gunny sack clutched in Dodger's hand.

Paling, he looked at it. He'd forgotten about that…

Glancing back up, he saw Sykes staring at Oliver now with that same expression on his face, and he took a protective step forward. Sykes saw this and turned to him, shaking his head and, being sure to tighten his hold on the boy's mouth, took the hand pinioning Oliver's arms to tap the side of his coat. He was _mocking _him…

Feeling his mouth go dry and tears fill his eyes, he leaned against the wall for the necessary support as his legs went wobbly. He could do nothing.

The next moments were unable to be remembered. All he knew was that Sykes had taken Oliver into the alley, bound him as one would an animal, and beaten him mercilessly. The boy's stifled cries being the only sounds to meet his ears during that time, he wasn't ashamed of the tears that escaped his eyes and slid down his cheeks.

Unexpectedly, he was brought from his inner pain by a good-sized rock from the direction of the alley nailing him in the head. The sharp smarting and light trickle of blood that flowed down from his forehead above his right eye was felt for only a second.

Either Oliver was fighting back, or Sykes had had no other way of getting his attention. He hoped with all he was that it was the first.

Rushing into the blackness, he waited. Gathering his courage, he whispered hopefully.

"Oliver?"

"He's here, Dodger." Sykes's scornful, triumphant voice was heard instead of the twelve-year-old's, and the older boy felt himself blend in with the pitch darkness surrounding him.

"What did you do?" He demanded angrily, frightened that Oliver might be… He forced the thought from his mind and listened for the answer. He just got another, condescending chuckle.

"Now, now, don't you worry. He's not dead…" Relief flared through his body. "_Yet_."

That threat alone was enough to send him into a panic. He _had _to know how bad off Oliver was, for both of their sakes.

"_Please_…please, let me see him." He couldn't stop his voice from trembling, from sounding very unlike the Artful Dodger the boys, Fagin, and only a handful of other Londoners knew.

"You'll see him soon enough. Give me the sack." The edge had returned to that horrid voice, and he could only consent. If Oliver was as badly injured as the crook made it sound, there was no time to be spared.

He heard the sack's coarse material ruffle as the small boy started to be shoved inside. Apparently, it wasn't as easy as Sykes had wagered, for he was grunting and swearing every few seconds.

"Dodger, help me with him." He hesitated. Without warning, he was jerked forward by his collar and made to kneel a few paces from where he'd just been standing. Sykes released his front and took his hands, placing them on Oliver's shins. He was being put in head first.

"Wait a minute." His own voice took on the intimidating tone this time, and he was incredibly thrown off guard when Sykes did as he asked.

"What?" This wasn't right.

"Put him in the other way. He'll die so far from the air." He could only hope the stubborn cheat would listen to reason. His best friend's life depended on it.

"Fine, but hurry it up."

They lifted the unconscious, fragile boy and switched places as they turned in a circle, Dodger being as careful as he could while Sykes jostled the child as he liked. Something warm and wet began seeping through the seventeen-year-old's lower left pant leg, and Dodger knew by its smell what it was.

Blood. Oliver was _bleeding_.

All at once, he had to fight back the unimagined surge of the demon within him. Sykes would _pay _for this, if it was the last thing he did.

Oliver, tied up and in the bound gunny sack, was laid into his outstretched arms about fifteen seconds later. He wasn't sure how to carry him; the boy could be hurt far worse than he even dared to imagine, and if that was the case, wouldn't someone catch them if they saw blood soaking through the brown fibers?

"Come on. Let's get back before Fagin gets any older, shall we?" From beside him, Sykes whispered in dark humor, and a chill tingled down his spine. How he _hated _that man.

Gingerly raising Oliver to lay across both of his shoulders, figuring that would keep him the safest and be the least likely position to cause further injury, they stepped out of the black alleyway and into the white-yellow sunlight.

He no longer felt worthy of the warmth the Sun gave, no matter how odd that made him sound. The weight of Oliver was equivalent to something he had heard in the square once, a story of a god who had held the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He was barely aware of Nancy and the rest of the boys tagging behind them at inconspicuous paces, and he also did not notice the woman's worried glances toward the child she had involuntarily helped her lover kidnap.

The only thing he knew was that he had just been an unwilling accomplice in his best friend's snatching and—though he prayed he was wrong—possible death.

* * *

~Oliver didn't deserve this, just as he didn't deserve Oliver.~

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_A/N: _Thanks for reading!


	3. Burned

_A/N: _It's about seventeen minutes till three in the morning, so I seem to be acting strangely through these A/Ns or don't catch everything, it's because I'm really tired. lol.

This is an expansion of a scene in the movie where the books given to Oliver by Mr. Brownlow are tossed into the fire by Sykes and Dodger tries to fish them out. I liked it very much, even Bill's threatening of him, so I was inspired to write an episode of what _could _have happened, but luckily didn't.

_Disclaimer_: I do not own "Oliver Twist"/Oliver Twist. They belong to Charles Dickens and 'The Wonderful World of Disney' (Disney Productions or ABC?).

* * *

"Most importantly," Fagin stopped walking and looked the battered boy in the eyes as he was forced to stop beside him. Even from his seat on the hearth, Dodger could see Oliver's swollen, discolored eye, and there were many more injuries under his clothes that were unable to be seen. He felt sick all over again. "Did you _peach_?"

A determined light encompassed the young boy's eyes, and his older friend was proud.

"_No_." The old man held his gaze for numerous more moments before nodding; the answer would do for now. Dodger was mildly bewildered, but pleased at the same time, to see Fagin impressed.

Suddenly, the silence in the abode was shattered. Having no further use for him if he hadn't sung, Bill Sykes stalked over to the boy and harshly shoved him to his left. Dodger leaped up and caught him, steadying him with careful hands on his shoulders. Helping him to the hearth, they situated themselves next to each other, one arm staying around Oliver's shoulders as his best friend glared at Sykes.

There was a malicious expression on the man's face, and even Nancy gripped the armrests of the chair in which she was sitting.

"Where are the books, Fagin?" Looking a bit confused at the crow, the older of the men turned and went into his private room, coming back out a few seconds later with the two, rare, twine-bound books Mr. Brownlow had entrusted to Oliver. Dodger felt the boy stiffen next to him with a gasp, and the arm encasing his shoulders tightened.

Ripping them from Fagin's hands, Sykes kept his eyes on the lad, a malevolent grin on his face as he flicked his arm outward, sending the books hurtling into the heart of the fire before anyone understood what was happening. When the initial shock wore off, the volumes were already burning steadily.

Dodger reached for them desperately, carefully so as not to burn himself, but not really caring if he did; after all, this was for Oliver, not him. The pages of both books were black and quite obviously unreadable, and the hard covers were in the same state; the books were falling apart, turning to ashes faster than he could attempt to grab them, and he didn't have the heart to tell Oliver that they couldn't be salvaged. Anyway, everyone could see.

"What do you think you're doin'?" There was no debating who had spoken; there was only one man on the face of the Earth who could make a room so silent and so cold with only six words.

He said nothing to Sykes's unspoken threat or the way he stomped over and got in his face. He merely averted his eyes and continued to try to save what was left of the priceless objects.

Beside him, Oliver watched him in horror, eyes wide, face pale, and breath taken. Dodger shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be risking everything just for him. Didn't he know that he didn't blame him for the kidnapping, that he knew him well enough to see he hadn't done it by choice? Didn't he know he forgave him? Didn't he know he trusted him with his life?

That was just it, though. Dodger _did _blame himself for Oliver's present appearance, _did _feel incomparably guilty for having helped in his abduction, _did _hate himself for everything he'd done to inadvertently hurt the boy since bringing him into this mess all those months ago.

All the same, Oliver _needed _this to stop. He knew what could happen if it didn't, and he knew he wouldn't be able to handle the consequences.

Dodger felt the small, warm hand on the crook of his arm, and he very nearly froze. He'd missed that lately, yearned for it over the course of a little over twenty-four hours, but not in this way.

Oliver knew his futile plan, wished for his friend to stop before he got himself hurt; unfortunately for him, Dodger had always been a stubborn boy, and the setting of his jaw and sharpening of his eyes proved that as he went on like nothing had happened.

Sykes, meanwhile, did not appreciate being ignored so blatantly. He grabbed the coal-turner from its stand next to the hearth, its end still red from being left in the core of the flame for too long, and raised it high above his head.

Knowing what was going to happen, Dodger instinctively flexed away, back toward Sykes and front facing the heat of the fire. He had never been more afraid of such a simple thing as pain, and he wondered if he could possibly have underestimated it.

He waited for a count of five. He waited for the stinging, for the blisters, for the _pain_.

It never came.

He didn't look up. The psychotic sadist was probably reveling in the fear radiating from him.

Except…what was this? He was abruptly made known to a warm, all-including mass cloaking him, guarding him, and he didn't remember its coming.

Opening his tightly shut eyes, he wasn't sure what to do. Was this one of Sykes's tricks? Did the man want him to turn around in order to maim his face and chest in the name of some sick routine of his?

No, that couldn't be it. No matter how smart Sykes was, his pride was his real flaw. He had to win at everything he did, even if that should be by dishonorable means; knowing this, he would have been long dead by now. Something—namely, this mass—must have stopped him.

Feeling a tight pressure bunching up his coat on the right side, he tentatively reached back with his hand; he couldn't know for sure whether Sykes hadn't been waiting for this type of bait. Yet, what he felt was a hand, and a small one at that, clutching his jacket for all it was worth, and he immediately understood.

With a start, he spun to face the room's population, impressively wrenching Oliver from his back with one hand and holding him in the air by the back of his shirt to get a good look at him. The little, scrawny ruffian was lucky to be his best friend; if he wasn't, he would have knocked him into next week for doing something so stupid as throwing himself over Dodger to shield him from the blows.

Seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere with Oliver's hazel eyes steadfastly piercing his, he turned him around. If there was anything short of a perfectly healthy back-end to be found, he swore Sykes would meet a not-so-early grave. Never in his life had the Artful Dodger felt so enlightened and sick at the same time.

His worries and irrational threats were quickly doused, however, as the twelve-year-old's spinal area and other such places checked out flawlessly. Spinning the boy once more to face him again, he let himself smile gently in relief as he carefully placed him on the floor.

As Oliver settled comfortably against his chest, they both looked up at Sykes. They wanted to know why he hadn't struck them. They had only done the natural thing and protected one another, after all.

He was staring at them, countenance white and red simultaneously—frightened and raging at once. He shook with his anger and sweated with his fear, and the boys could not bring themselves to believe they had caused this monstrosity.

"I'll get you. Either both of you or one, but I _will _get you." He breathed darkly; his voice was shrouded in years of the carried-out assassinations brought on by rough living, and they had no doubt he meant every word. While both glowered in response, Dodger rested a hand on Oliver's shoulder.

By her arm, Sykes yanked a green-looking Nancy from her chair and fled, uncaring that Fagin was yelling obscenities at him for almost murdering his best pickpocket.

Meanwhile, Oliver and Dodger were all right. Hugging the boy tightly, the weathered thief could find no fault in relishing in the boy's safety. If the adolescent had gotten himself hurt or killed while protecting him tonight, he wouldn't have known what to do with himself.

* * *

~Without Oliver, he was nothing.~


	4. Starved

_A/N: _Sorry this is so very late! I've been so busy with school projects, homework, other writing projects, etc., that I'd actually quite forgotten about this (though thinking about it every now and then)! So sorry! Thanks so much if you've stayed with me! lol. Hope you enjoy this one!

_Disclaimer: _I don't own "Oliver Twist"/Oliver Twist. Charles Dickens, Disney, and ABC do._  
_

_

* * *

_This chapter was inspired by:

Dodger watches Oliver as he sits with Nancy, the girl trying and failing—once again—to get him to eat.

He worries.

* * *

Oliver's sudden loss of weight and sickly behavior made sense, unfortunately; the boy hadn't eaten more than an apple and a piece of toast—and even then, he'd done so with haunted eyes—since his involuntary return to Fagin's place a week ago.

He hadn't been sleeping well either, tossing and turning and occasionally crying out as he was assaulted with nightmares, no doubt reliving the horror he'd suffered and continued to suffer during and after his kidnapping.

Such was taking place again tonight, just now.

In the bunk above his, Dodger fought—as always—the urge to go to him, to wake him and to hold him as a twelve-year-old boy _should _be cherished. Instead, knowing it could mean something far worse than nightmares for them both if that snot-nosed canary of Sykes' were spying on them, he could only squeeze his eyes shut and clench fistfuls of his thin sheets to keep from verbally damning the man who had caused all of this.

He _hated _Sykes, hated him so intensely that he couldn't be sure if he wouldn't go right mental the next time he saw the man. Dear Lord, the foul devil deserved much less, much worse, than Hell, of that the Dodger had absolutely no qualms.

Gritting his teeth when another of Oliver's hushed cries pierced the air, Dodger knew they would make it through this night as they had all the others. And then…and then it would be morning, and he would be able to breathe again. They _both _would be.

Burying his face into his pillow, Dodger tried to breathe deeply, breathe past the large lump in his throat and the tears that struggled to be set free. In a few short hours, it would be morning.

Morning…

* * *

This morning, like all the others, had everyone seated at the main room's table, eating the scraps they'd saved from the previous day's pick-pocketing for breakfast. Everyone, that is, except Oliver. But that was nothing new.

Every morning but this, as Sykes had said he'd had some business to take care of and his girl had been told to stay home, Nancy had futilely tried to feed Oliver while Fagin and his employer had talked their usual rot. Even knowing she would have done it anyway—she _had_ told him she would be his Mother, after all—Dodger was enormously grateful to her for tending to Oliver when he himself couldn't, when Sykes had finally had enough of his 'fussing' days ago and kicked him out to 'work for his keep.'

The other boys had learned long ago that the seat beside Oliver was reserved for Dodger, and they didn't mind his protectiveness toward the boy so long as they could snicker amongst themselves when out of earshot—anything more than that, and they knew Dodger would be on them faster than Sykes himself, sober or inebriated whatever.

This early day, then, found the two as they always were: sitting so closely that their arms brushed constantly, their hair—and Dodger's hat—swiping the sides of each other's face numerous times.

And yet, compared to the carefree take on their relationship in the past, there was the stark contrast of a rapidly starving Oliver and an increasingly concerned Dodger.

Eyeing the younger boy warily, the Dodger let his eyes roam across the pale, gaunt face and swallowed slowly, almost too afraid to breathe. He looked so small, so weak, almost devoid of the spirit that had first drawn the Dodger to him in the London Square all those months ago, and the chief thief couldn't face it.

If Sykes could get to Oliver like this, could make him so miserable that he barely possessed the will to keep himself _alive _anymore…

No… Oh, _please_, no…

Dodger remembered suddenly the day they'd met, how innocent, kind, and tough the kid had been—and still was, apart from the tough aspect—for one newly on his own with nowhere to go, and he clenched his hands into white fists as his face twisted in an onslaught of fury.

As this occurred, he was dimly aware of the other boys across from him; the younger ones were scared, some shoulders shook with fear, while the older ones feigned an artificial bravery.

"Dodger," a quiet, slightly hoarse voice coughed, and the seventeen-year-old gazed down into the hazel eyes of his best friend. A tiny, bony, dirty hand taking his under the table, Dodger's fingers were carefully pried from continuing to make white crescent marks on his palm, and the blood quickly rushed back into the now-freed flesh. Squeezing, Oliver offered his protector a small, wry smile, and Dodger breathed deeply.

Understanding his friend's intentions, Dodger glanced up at his other fellow pickpockets and tried to grin in an apologetic, reassuring manner. He must have succeeded—or failed pitifully and the blokes were just taking pity on him—because a few did their best to reciprocate in kind.

Turning his attention from them abruptly, Dodger focused again on Oliver. Peering back into the boy's eyes, he saw that the momentary strength the twelve-year-old had found to help Dodger had melted into weakness once more.

Fearing very much for his sanity upon comprehending the amount of rage he felt toward Sykes, not to mention his mass anxiety over the growing concern of Oliver's physical health, the Dodger quieted and determinedly cut up the best of the piece of untouched ham on his plate—honestly, how could he eat when his closest friend was feeling so low?—and dropped it onto Oliver's plate. There was a slapping sound as the just-drying meat fell onto the cheap tin platter.

Apparently having been lost in his thoughts, the sound caused Oliver to immediately snap up and gasp softly, cringing and gripping the table's edge as leverage; it was as if—Dodger felt his stomach churn—as if he were expecting to be _hit_…

Eyes wide and countenance pale, the seventeen-year-old found himself frozen, staring hollowly at the vulnerable figure of his best friend. He'd meant to _help_ the boy, not scare him.

And there he discovered the root of the problem.

A sudden shiver removing him from his stupor, he cautiously laid a tender hand on Oliver's shoulder. Frightened eyes flickered upward to meet his, and as the younger boy's whirring mind registered the goodwill and concern brewing within the older male, he relaxed. No danger would touch him with Dodger there.

Passion swelled in Dodger's chest, and he prayed he would be able to uphold such a level of trust. Looking inwardly, though—and here was where the doubts arose—dear Lord, who was he _kidding_?

He had already broken it.

When this was all over—and though Dodger wouldn't know it for a good many months or so afterward—the majority would say Sykes, not him, per se, was the one to bring the most intense suffering to the Twist boy. Convinced of the truth he all but knew to be true, however, there was such self-loathing assaulting his heart that he didn't know how he was still alive.

But then, calm, confident eyes still fixed on Dodger, Oliver put forth a smile.

There was his answer.

Oliver knew what he had done; he had given up the boy's location, agreed to help Sykes in the kidnapping, held the gunny sack into which he'd been put. But he also knew that Dodger had been coerced into everything, knew that he had fought until he had been given an impossible ultimatum.

Oliver still trusted him, still believed in him above all else, and Dodger was unbelievably grateful.

Ignoring the stares he was getting from the other boys, there was a certain, almost gentle set to Dodger's jaw as he leaned over the twelve-year-old's plate and began to dice up the ham. Feeling Oliver's curious eyes on him, Dodger worked faster, and he was done within seconds.

Spearing a few of the smaller pieces on the boy's fork, which he took from beside the plate, Dodger held it out to him. Blush showing through the grime on his face, Oliver gazed at him with wide eyes.

Dodger laughed. "Well, if you're not going to eat by yourself, I figured I might help you along." Gesturing toward his friend's mouth with the still-full fork, Dodger pleaded with his eyes, and Oliver could not object.

Opening his mouth, he closed it once the metal was inside and began chewing the second Dodger removed it. The meat tasted heavenly, especially after being without food for so long, but just as he was about halfway through chewing, a nauseous feeling began to rise.

Dodger, seeing his best friend looked a bit green, stopped for a moment and set down the fork, watching concernedly as he set a hand on Oliver's back. The feeling passed, and Oliver, after waiting a few moments to be sure, nodded to Dodger and was fed again; he attributed the wave of queasiness to the dark side of being too depressed to eat for several days.

* * *

~Dodger wouldn't let him waste away.~

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_A/N: _Thanks so much for reading! Again, sorry for the delay! (Happy Spring Break!)


	5. Deprived

_A/N: _Considering it's two minutes or so after one A.M. and I'm exhausted, sorry if this isn't very good. I was determined to finished it before I went to bed. Also, the end is somewhat of a paraphrasing (hopefully, a good one) of the 'inspired by' quotation below. Sorry. It's just a scene from the movie that I _loved _and had to have it in here! Thanks for reading!

Oh, and I just bought the movie off of Ebay! Yay! Now, I can watch it (and get the _correct _quotations from it, verbatim) whenever I want! Sweet! lol. I am _such _a nerd... My friends/Honors World History teacher will _never_ let me live this one down! XP

_Disclaimer_: Don't own "Oliver Twist" (will own the DVD soon, though! Yay!)/Oliver Twist. Charles Dickens (who _rules_), Disney, and ABC do.

* * *

This chapter was inspired by:

"There's something I've realized… It's not a game anymore, Dodger."

Dodger looks at him, searches his no-longer-innocent eyes, and knows the truth.

"Never was a game, mate. We just thought it was."

* * *

For once, Dodger had shucked both his hat and famous brown jacket, sporting beneath the cover-up a surprisingly neat-looking brown vest, white dress shirt, and set of matching brown slacks. Both articles of clothing hung from one of the bedposts.

He and Oliver were alone that night; well, except for Fagin, who paid them no mind as he muttered to himself in his corner of the room. Sitting on the floor in front of the fire, Dodger poked the flames absently with the coal turner—the same with which Sykes had almost killed them—as Oliver sat in the armchair beside him.

Dodger wasn't used to the silence that filled his home. The other boys were always so loud, so rowdy, and the quiet was almost a thousand times more deafening than the noise. They were out somewhere, probably to one of the special bars around town which served to minors, getting just drunk enough that they'd be able to snatch up a buzz and still find their way home.

But, of course, the Dodger hadn't gone with them. They'd complained for a while, tried to get his goat, but the eldest of them wouldn't be swayed for anything. They knew why, too. The answer was right beside him.

Oliver himself was beginning to nod off, the heat from the fire and easy night taking their toll. _That's not just it_, Dodger thought, observing the way Oliver's head rested sideways on his left shoulder and the rest of his arm hung at an almost horizontal angle off the arm of the chair. And he was right. It wasn't.

The nightmares were getting worse and worse. Sometimes, the boy's screams would get so bad that Fagin would bellow in his croaky voice to have the boy woken up, occasionally even throwing in a threat or two when he was particularly riled, and the Dodger would always have to bite back a plea for mercy before doing as he was told. That was something he could never do, something that would surely send Sykes on a blackmail-happy tirade.

The kid barely slept anymore because of the frequency of the night terrors, and because his worry had begun flooding his veins long ago, Dodger watched his nearly-sleeping friend with the barest hint of hopeful anticipation showing on his face. However, the expression faltered when Oliver straightened, raised his head, and stared determinedly into the fire, breathing deeply. Dodger frowned and inaudibly sighed. So _close_…

Setting down the fire-tending instrument, Dodger stood and cautiously made his way over to his friend, standing in front of him with head cocked to the side and eyes narrowed nervously.

"Oliver?" he breathed, not sure he dared to get any louder.

Then, heart beating faster, he took in the boy's dazed look, complete with glazed eyes and pale features, and became very afraid. Kneeling before him, Dodger rested a firm hand on Oliver's knee and pressed an anxious, slightly sweaty palm to his forehead. No fever, thank Jiminy, but…but what if he—

No, he wouldn't. Dodger wouldn't _let _him die.

The boy before him exhaled disjointedly, and the older male pulled away, not bothering to push back the tears in his eyes when it was just them. Oliver had seen it before, anyway.

It may have been either the firelight or blinding tears or both, but upon looking again, Dodger swore the boy suddenly looked much worse than he had five seconds ago. "Dodger," Oliver squeaked shakily, the tears in his eyes constricting his throat and making the weathered thief's neck hairs stand on end, "I—I can't sleep, Dodger. I _can't_."

Hearing his best friend sound so broken, so desperate, Dodger physically felt his heart clench. Could the poor child never catch a break?

"Why not, Oliver?" he asked gently, stroking the younger boy's light brown hair. Salty tears leaked and cascaded down the twelve-year-old's face, and Dodger could only catch them with his dirty fingers and try to suppress the growing pit in his stomach.

"It hurts too much, Dodger," Oliver whispered, and the seventeen-year-old's face went white. "He's there, every time, and it's dark, and I can't get out." Dodger knew exactly what he was talking about—the kidnapping—and he only listened to the rest for his friend's benefit. "And you, you're there, too." The boy's eyes lit up the smallest bit, and a tiny, like flare went off within Dodger. "But…but you're trying to help me. You're calling out, running to me, but something's holding you back. You—" his voice cracked, "—you're hurt, Dodger, whenever I turn around. You're bleeding, beaten; you've been shot—" The tears fell rapidly, cutting off his words when he obviously had more heartache to divulge, but he let it go for now. He was so tired that he really didn't care anymore. He was quiet, suffering, for a few minutes, but he regained his voice enough to relay the worst of it. "And Sykes—we're at Mr. Brownlow's, and—" he pursed his lips, needing only a second more, "—I never meant to hurt them, Dodger…"

He broke even more completely now, entire face a sea of shiny wetness and red pain. The boy's voice shook so badly that Dodger took a good fifteen seconds to decipher the last phrase, but when he did, he very nearly let his own tears go.

"Oliver," the hand coursing through the short brown hair was trembling, "Oliver, it _will _be all right." Gingerly picking the boy up, one arm fitting in the bend of his legs and the other cradling his thin shoulders—dear Lord, he swore if the lad didn't start taking care of himself…—he collapsed into the chair.

The boy responded to the comfort immediately, tightening his grip on the older boy's neck and burying his face into his shoulder as he cried. Chin resting atop the boy's hair, Dodger held him tightly, wishing he could do so much more than he already was. "Oliver, I promise. You'll be _fine_." Dodger vowed he would be, no matter where he himself was when this was all over. And for Oliver's sake, he prayed that was soon.

Seeing the boy was not going to calm for a while, Dodger chose to wait it out by being there and rubbing his back consolingly. Letting himself get lost in his thoughts was only too easy in this despicable silence—that is, the silence apart from Oliver's sobs.

So, Oliver dreamed of both his kidnapping _and _the forced steal from Mr. Brownlow, eh? Somehow, he'd known those would catch up eventually, grimly figuring long ago that they were the subjects of his nightmares. And to think _he _was in them, making things all the worse for Oliver… It was times like this when Dodger wondered why he'd ever been born.

* * *

Dodger awoke hours later, looking around with bleary eyes for any sign of life or morning. No sounds were heard, meaning even Fagin had gone quiet at last, and it was pitch dark outside. Dodger snorted inwardly. The other boys must have been even more desperate for a tune-out than he was.

He sighed softly. It was all so real now.

Several minutes later, he was given a reply. "Isn't it, though?"

Surprised, Dodger glanced down at Oliver, his brow furrowed in confusion. Had he said that aloud? The momentary embarrassment was worth it, though, as a smile formed on the young boy's lips.

"Yes, you did." Abruptly, his face took on a serious, pensive look. "And…I…" he started choppily, "…can you feel it, too, then?" He looked up into Dodger's face, and his dark cloud gathered charge. "Yes..."

"What are you on about, Oliver?" Dodger asked anxiously, putting his palm to the boy's forehead again, sure he had gone mad while they'd dozed. Reaching up, the twelve-year-old gently removed his hand and grasped it strongly, eyes hard.

"Don't you see, Dodge?" No, idiot, of course he didn't. "No matter what Sykes says, no matter how Fagin tried to persuade us, the world isn't ours to toy with." His eyes burned with haunted, eye-opened intensity. "It never was." His tone was almost metallic, so sharp and defined. "We aren't playing anymore."

Now, Dodger understood, as did the identity of Jack Dawkins buried within. "We haven't been for a long time, have we? You're right. Really, we…" this part was particularly hard to get out, "…we never were."

* * *

~Anything that wanted Oliver would have to go through Dodger first.~

* * *

_A/N: _Sorry if this wasn't up to par with the others! I felt...different while writing this one, and as stated up-top, I'm exhausted, so...tell me what you think of this one's flow when compared with the others', please? Thanks! Rock on!


	6. Assured

_A/N: _See, Rosebud? As promised! A little late, but I was reading and writing and talking it up with a new friend... lol. Sorry. I did it, though! School starts again tomorrow after a week of spring break, so...yay... Updates might be slower, then, just to warn you.

This chapter includes a bit of Charley near the end. Not sure if he was even in the 1997 version, but oh well. As I haven't gotten to his and the others' part of the book yet (and from what I've read in fanfiction about him), I've probably gotten him all wrong, so sorry. I'm showing a bit more of his sensitive side, though, for those wary. (Also, I can't remember if Oliver's Mom is the daughter or daughter-in-law of Mr. Brownlow, so if I got that wrong, please tell me.) Again, I paraphrased the below quotation in the text (hopefully well); sorry, but sometimes it seems the best way, you know?

_Disclaimer_: Don't own "Oliver Twist"/Oliver Twist. Charles Dickens, ABC, and Disney do. (For the hundredth time...)

* * *

This chapter was inspired by:

"You know what I said about friends, mate. They become your enemies, sooner or later."

But all the while the heart strings are pulling as Oliver's young face crumbles.

"The rich blokes' place…" Dodger intones mischievously, a comforting smile forming. "Go back there, and _stay _there."

* * *

"Dodger…?" He paused in his walk and turned around slowly, recognizing the voice instantly. Warm eyes strove to mask his taxing worry, though he knew full-well its futility. The boy was too clever, knew too much of him, for that.

"Yes…Oliver?" he questioned confusedly, brow wrinkling at the child's thoughtfully scrunched face. Coming closer, Dodger ducked to sit beside him on the bunk, a worried expression overtaking his face. "Something wrong, mate?"

Oliver hummed, just barely tilting his head to the side. "I—I overheard Charley whispering today…" Dodger rolled his eyes; he'd _told _Oliver to keep his ear out of the other boys' business, especially when they were acting all 'private like' about it, "…and I heard something…"

Exasperatedly curious, Dodger let out a flash of a smile before becoming serious again. "What was it?"

If it were something about Sykes, about Nancy, even about Fagin, he could smile grimly and place the blame on his or her respective demons.

If it were about the other boys, he could wave off and explain their well-known issues.

If it were about Oliver and his purpose for being here, though… Perhaps he could try to figure it out on the spot; after all, he'd always been told he was insightful for his age…though he didn't think only just realizing—with Oliver's arrival, in fact—how disgusting Sykes, Fagin, and their livelihood could be accounted for that.

…Unless the world had turned upside down while he'd slept…and he didn't doubt that it could have. It seemed his life had been nothing but backwards and top-hat over ever since he'd brought the boy home months earlier.

"It was…" he turned to Dodger, voice still weighing somewhat on the floored side, "…about you, actually."

Dodger cocked an eyebrow. "Me?"

The boy nodded. "Yes. They said you'd gotten so attached to me that they didn't fancy you'd let any trap, let alone Bill Sykes, get at me without a…fight..." Oliver's words held back a bit as he took in the embarrassed, telling expression on Dodger's face. Placing a warm, companionable hand on his best friend's, the boy asked quietly, "What's it mean, Dodge?"

Gazing into the twelve-year-old's eyes, he grinned and grasped the hand that held his. Normally, talking about him in such a way behind his back would merit wringing the boys' necks, but…

He chuckled lightly, smiling at the irony. It was the perfect safeguard, really, and he should have known—honestly, this was _Charley_—that they'd use it against him one of these days. After all, it's not like there was any roughing to be done if what they said were _true_.

So, he decided to tell him straight. He owed him that much.

Lowering his voice for intimacy's sake, he delicately shook their joined hands and beamed at the boy tenderly. "It means, Oliver, that I care for you very much. It means that, coming down to it, I would go to jail in your place." The youth's eyes widened as he sucked in a breath, and Dodger was glad he understood the true extent of his devotion. "You don't belong there, Oliver." The twelve-year-old sat back, closed his mouth, and nodded solemnly with understanding eyes. "It means that I will protect you from whatever I can as well as I can until you find something better than this." With an undertone of humor and a flick of his eyes, he indicated the room at large. "Because we both know your place isn't here."

"Yes…" Oliver was happy for a moment, a meditative smile lighting up his countenance and hazel eyes, but a sudden fall came and shattered it. Looking down at his bare, filthy, blistered-and-callused feet, there was such a melancholy, electric feel to the air around him that the seventeen-year-old was immediately uneasy.

"Dodge…" the boy looked up at him now, eyebrows dipping, "…what'll happen to you if…when I…?" This seemed to be difficult for him, so Dodger stepped in to help.

"Get back?" he offered, and Oliver nodded gradually, biting his lip. "Oliver, please, promise you won't worry about me. I'll be fine, I swear." Pursing his lips, his eyes were somehow more vibrant. "As your friend, trust me, okay?" He gave the boy a tiny, hopeful smile.

Swallowing slowly, eyes flashing, Oliver unexpectedly threw his arms around Dodger's neck. The seventeen-year-old was momentarily shocked at the abrupt action before wrapping his arms around the boy and holding tightly. "I promise, Dodger, but…you're my best friend, Dodge. I think I have a right to worry."

He had more to say, made obvious by the second breath he took, but his friend stopped him with a whisper. "'Friend'… That's a very strong word, you know."

Oliver pulled back slowly, looking into his eyes determinedly. "Yes." Then, his tone took on a different, almost older quality. "And I meant it, Dodger. You know I did."

Dodger's blue eyes shadowed a moment as he stared at the boy, brow furrowing and lips forming a thin line. "Yeah, I know. And that's what scares me."

Rubbing Oliver's arms affectionately for a moment, he lay back on the bunk with his arms folded behind his head. His hat slid almost all the way over his eyes, and Oliver pushed it back a little to make him more comfortable before flopping down beside him. There wasn't much room on the bunk, but they didn't mind.

After several minutes of quiet, Oliver couldn't contain his bubbling curiosity anymore. "Dodger…" the older boy, having closed his eyes, felt the bed shift as his friend turned on his side to look at him, "…why does it scare you?"

Sighing roughly through his nose, Dodger squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, wishing to block out the world…before being forced to succumb to its reality. Opening them, he blinked a few times to get his slightly blurry vision back to normal prior to fixing his eyes on the twelve-year-old's face.

"I've seen what happens to friends on the streets, Oliver. They turn on each other; peach when the other filches, sing where they're staying, let the other get caught when the traps see them at their game." He watched Oliver blanch, eyes wide and filling with tears all at once. Sitting up, he was surprised when the boy didn't back away. His face was firm, voice matching. "I _trust_ you, Oliver. Please don't think I don't." His eyes were pleading, small tears gathering strength. "I would _never _betray that." His voice wavered a little. "I'd die first," he admitted sacredly, a few of the tears falling.

"Dodger…" Oliver was white as a sheet and shaking, and Dodger brought him close, curling him into a protective embrace against his chest. His mouth was dry as he started up again.

"It's just…the things I've seen… You don't get over them so easily, Oliver. You just—" his voice splintered as more tears fell, "—don't…" He grabbed fistfuls of the twelve-year-old's shirt as they both otherwise relaxed into the other's embrace, Dodger finally allowing his tears to flow.

They wiped their eyes and sniffed numerous times upon pulling apart minutes later. Faces still red and slightly tear-stained, Dodger's hat was slightly askew and Oliver's hair was sticking up at odd angles. Still, there was a sense of action shrouding the older.

Staring hard at the younger boy's dirty face, he took the lad's hands and gently entwined their fingers.

"We have to get you back there. If Mr. Brownlow _is_ your grandfather, the Father of the woman in your locket, you can have the life you _deserve_, Oliver." He squeezed the hands he held kindly, voice going low again. "You know that's all I want for you."

Yawning, Oliver lay down on his side and looked up at Dodger, one of their hands still intertwined. Dodger lay down next to him, brushing the boy's dirty hair from his forehead, gazing at him with such protectiveness and care that Oliver tenderly wrapped his arms around his chest and buried his face there. Dodger cradled his head in one of his hands as the other snaked around his skinny frame and hugged him strongly.

"I know, Dodger," Oliver mumbled sleepily against him, nearly-but-not lost on the more alert boy. "Thank you…"

The seventeen-year-old grinned.

"You're welcome, Oliver. You're welcome."

* * *

Home from the job at last, the other boys barged through the door in their usual loud manner, but Fagin instantly quieted them with a finger to his lips and a point in the direction of the two curled up on the bed. Seeing it for what it was, the boys inclined their heads, most of them nevertheless snickering and laughing behind their hands as they ventured off to have dinner and play a game of cards.

Charley, however, hung back, walking over to them as silently as possible, his stealthy footwork making little to no sound. Draping a blanket over the pair, he caressed their heads with a feather-light touch, his eyes soft and sad.

"You're getting in too deep, Dodge."

* * *

~Dodger had fallen inside the black a long time ago, but he'd be damned if Oliver followed him.~


	7. Twice Gutted

_A/N: _I believe I may have drifted on this one a bit, with the point, I mean... This is the scene where Bill makes Dodger follow Nancy. This scene is very AU, as in the movie, Dodger does it semi-willingly (he's getting paid; he _is _a broke rogue of England trying to get by, after all), but I didn't like that, so...well, you'll see. Please tell me if everyone's characterized all right!

**Warning: **This chapter has some violence in it, just to warn you. And one...other thing... (Nothing horrible, I swear, but...you'll see.)

Thanks for reading, as always! This chapter took forever and is a bit longer than the others, nearly 5 pages, while the rest are about 3 1/2 at most. Hope you enjoy! (Oh, and the last line before the 'squiggly-lined part' is a slight modification to a line from the Bible: Luke 23:34.)

* * *

This chapter was inspired by:

He smells the liquor on Sykes' breath as the glowing, violent eyes bear into him.

He glares back defiantly.

"You _will_ help me, Dodger," the man sneers dangerously, "or you know what'll happen."

* * *

Nancy had left not four minutes prior, but already, Sykes was here, aura murderous even as he recovered from his fury-paced run. A dangerous light shone, _raged_, in his eyes, and Dodger was silently quite thankful that the other boys were out on the job at the moment. For an especially hung-over Sykes, they were little more than targets.

"Bill, calm yourself," Fagin ordered softly, looking to the youngest male in the room. Outstretching an arm, he flicked his ring finger into the air; it was their signal to fetch something _strong_. "Dodger, my dear, get the man a drink, will you?"

The boy moved to fulfill the request, but was stopped by the sounds of fists harshly striking the table. Instinctively, he jumped and turned toward the source of the noise, but regretted it as Sykes' shrill yells filled the room.

"I don't _want _a drink, Fagin, I _want _to know where she's gone!" Grabbing Fagin by his collar, Sykes brought the man so close that their noses were millimeters from touching. Eyes glinting in an almost wild fashion, he shook Fagin angrily, the older man himself sporting wide, fearful eyes and appearing not to be chancing breath. "She's betrayin' me, Fagin, I know she is! She's taken to that boy, that rotten little brat who's worth nothin'!" A few tears, most likely not withheld due to the mist and pain of his hangover, slid down his cheeks. "_Nothin'_, I tell you!"

Then, abruptly, he shoved Fagin back—who promptly scrambled clear across the room, chest heaving and eyes terrified—and gripped one of the vertical wooden beams at his side for support.

Dodger wasn't paying any attention to either of them, though. Sykes had bashed Nancy for helping Oliver—as that was, in fact, what he knew in his heart she was doing, God bless her—bashed Oliver himself for being so very, innocently _good_: those were two offenses for which he would not stand.

Clenching his fists, he drew himself up to his full height and glared at the drunken fellow. "That's not fair, Sykes. Nancy's not like that, and you know it."

The man's neck snapped to look at him so fast Dodger swore he didn't see it, and the next thing he knew, he had taken up Fagin's position in the cheating assassin's chokehold. "_What _did you say to me, _rat_?" Sykes hissed through clenched teeth, and Dodger had to fight to keep from grimacing; honestly, did he think his beer-breath was _attractive_?

Instead, he added more heat to his glare and pulled his lips back into a snarl. "Nancy loves you, and if you love her or ever did, you may want to prove it with something other than your," he spat the next part, "daily beatings."

Angry as a bat from Hell, Sykes expressed something akin to insanity as he pulled his fist back and appeared more than prepared to kill Dodger and anyone else who defied him. Seeing this, the boy turned his head away, hoping to spare what little dignity he had left after being a rowdy pickpocket for eight straight years.

Luckily, he didn't have to hold out for long.

"Wait, Bill!" A wrinkled, gnarled hand closed over the enfolded fist, and Dodger was quite surprised when Sykes fell back a smidgen and peered at Fagin curiously. "The—the boy may be right, you know. Perhaps you _should _trust her." When Sykes started to look ferocious again, he continued hastily, "You—you've been together a long time, after all. I dare say, I wouldn't believe it if she were to turn on you now!" The old man gave a weak chuckle, but it quickly died, and the two older men stared at each other for a long time. "So—so why not let the boy go, Bill?" Fagin begged gently. "He's—"

"It's still not fair!" Dodger insisted, breaking into his caretaker's speech and ignoring his patronizing glance; no doubt Fagin was mulling over how very stupid he thought he was. Sykes turned back to him, breaths slow and deep as the fire came back to his ugly eyes. "What about Oliver, huh? You knew he never belonged here in the first place, but you went ahead and took him away when he'd finally found happiness in his life!" Another thought occurred to him, and his voice got louder in its righteous defense of the best friend he had ever had. "And he _couldn't_ have peached while there because the traps would have been on all of our bums by now!" His eyes narrowed hatefully, voice unfathomably more intense. "But you—you have the nerve to play with his heart anyway, like his pain is of absolutely no consequence to you!"

The evil smirk and chuckle that rose from within Sykes in a moment's time were none too settling for Dodger. He gulped and gritted his teeth, daring himself not to give in to the side of him that was screaming bloody murder.

"Oh," Sykes whispered menacingly, voice lilting treacherously as he brought the younger male ever closer, "but it _is_, my dear…!"

And he threw Dodger to the floor with such force that a jagged, splinter-pricked gash was made across the back of the boy's ankle, his foot having gone through one of the more rotten floorboards. Severely biting down on his lip to keep from crying out, Dodger pushed back the impulsive tears in his eyes and did his best to distract himself by mentally dressing his wound—never had he been more thankful for the lessons in crude medical care Nancy had given him when he'd first enlisted into Fagin's little gang.

Once finished with this task, his rational mind exasperatingly reminded him that he couldn't stay under cover of his mind forever, and he grudgingly returned to reality. The first thing he found there was Sykes zoning in on the wound he'd caused with a disgusting leer on his face. Ignoring it in a show of revolted pity, Dodger turned to the more important matter at hand.

"What does that mean, Sykes?" he asked suspiciously, referring to the man's preceding words. Because of his foot, he lacked the ability to back away when the assassin knelt down in front of him; that horrid look was still there, in his face, in his eyes, and Dodger wondered if Sykes truly had lost his mind at last. Really, it wouldn't be at all surprising.

"It _means_, Mr. Dawkins, that _you _will be my _pawn_," he drawled, grinning malevolently all the while. Understanding the implications of such words at once, Dodger began to quiver violently, shaking his head slowly as his blood turned ice-cold and an all-encasing lump took residence in his throat. Sykes merely laughed wickedly and growled, "_Yes_, you _will_!"

With that, the cheat grabbed the boy's injured leg and cruelly squeezed the wound directly, making Dodger involuntarily scream at the white-hot pain that struck his heart and blinded his senses. He was let go a moment later.

Staring at the man incredulously, the seventeen-year-old's true fear was inadvertently revealed as he breathed heavily and began to sweat from the strain being put on his body.

What _was _this?! Some kind of sick, pleasing torture?!

Apparently, the answer was yes.

Sykes, maintaining the grin that made him resemble a madman seconds away from world dominion, repeated the agonizing action in the next instant. His sinister expression only contorted further when he was rewarded with a more intensified version of the initial reaction.

Forcing himself to work through the excruciating pain, Dodger set his jaw and reluctantly considered his options.

Defying Sykes again would mean more pain, and knowing the hateful coward, it would last until Dodger either begged for mercy or died. Even with his limited knowledge, he somehow understood that a young body like his wouldn't be able to survive this level of pain much longer, and besides, he wouldn't be able to help anyone dead.

But he also knew that whatever Sykes had in store was ultimately betraying Nancy—the only woman he'd ever dared to love after his dear Mother had died when he was just a kid—and Oliver—his best friend, the boy he cared for and protected, viewed as a little brother!

_No_! He _couldn't_!

Clearly, his loyalties did not lie with bullying, spineless psychopaths.

"I _won't_!" he cried boldly, never mind that the pain had started to take a tight hold, causing tears to form in his eyes and his voice to shake. "You can't make me betray them!" he growled, glaring at the man fiercely. "Oliver's about, and Nancy's just _out_ somewhere, probably at work or at Bet's!" No matter what, he was their friend first, their confidant, and he would uphold such honors until the day he died, whether that be today or in eighteen years. "Why can't you get that through your thick head?!" His mouth was running, and his words, fueled by his hate for the man that had built up over the years, could not be stopped once started. "There's _nothing _going on, you paranoid lout!"

Two sharp, hard slaps to the face, one right after the other and quick as lightning, got him quiet. The force of the blows knocked him onto his back, and already, he felt a bruise developing on his cheek and a black eye forming, bitter-tasting blood pooling in his mouth before trickling down his chin. _And this is only a small fraction of what Nancy has to go through every day_, he thought sadly.

Suddenly, Dodger yelped as he was picked up by the front of his shirt and swiftly flipped onto his stomach, grunting a little as his newly-acquired ankle wound was jostled. A large hand tightly grasped a handful of his long hair and slammed his head down to collide with the floorboards, making his other injuries scream silently in protest as he scrunched his eyes shut and ground his teeth against the abrupt, terrible pain.

As the impact had definitely possessed more than enough strength behind it, he was surprised when he didn't feel the numbing sensation that came with a broken nose in the next few seconds. Even so, he would have been more relieved if he had failed to recognize the cold metal of a gun barrel against his temple.

Initially, he went rigid and held his breath; the thought of fighting back crossed his mind, but he dismissed it as he remembered that Sykes was far bigger and far stronger than he was, not to mention the fact that he had firepower on his side.

Just as quickly as his fight-or-flight reflex had come, it passed, and he concluded to resign himself to his fate as Sykes, who practically lay on top of the boy with one of his elbows stabbing him in the back, pressed the gun's muzzle to Dodger's head in a final manner. Exhaling slowly as he closed his eyes, the seventeen-year-old proceeded to use his last seconds to pray for the two most important people in his life.

Suddenly, warm breath filled his ear, and he became stiff as a board at once. Dear Jiminy, here it comes…!

"_This_ is what'll happen to that good-for-nothing _wretch_ of yours, Dodger," Sykes snarled, and the boy felt his heart beat rapidly. He was relieved to be alive, but furious at the treatment of his absent friend. Oliver wasn't—! "And don't you worry about the whore..." the underlying threat was there, in all of it, and he clawed at the floor desperately, "…I'll have her _done_..."

Unexpectedly, his many assailants disappeared—the heat, the weight, the gun, the breath—but Dodger continued to lay there, paralyzed with fear. Dear God in Heaven…Oliver and Nancy! They would be— Sykes would—

No, that wouldn't happen! It _wouldn't_!

He gulped.

But…but that would mean…

All of a sudden, he swore his heart was lower in his chest than it should be.

"All right," he conceded shakily, trembling as he pushed himself into a sitting position with one hand. Taking in the room at a glance—_anything_ to keep from looking into Sykes' eyes so soon—he saw just what had happened to silence Fagin: the old man, slumped against the back of his favorite armchair, had at some point gotten much the same abuse as Dodger, his bleeding lip and nose being direct proof. The adolescent gazed up at the murdering cheat with soulless eyes. While it was true that this was the only way to keep Oliver alive and Nancy as unharmed as possible…that didn't mean he liked it. "What will I have to do?"

He cringed as an awful laugh filled his ears, and the tears he'd been holding back all this time were allowed to flow.

Dear God, forgive him; for he does not know what he is doing…

* * *

~It scared Dodger sometimes, to think that he was at Oliver's absolute mercy.~

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_A/N: _Thanks for reading! (And sorry for calling Nancy a...well, you know... _I _don't even like it, and I _never _use that word in my stories--never have--but I didn't want to use her name and I hoped to keep Sykes as cruel and himself as possible... XP)

Oh, and if you're wondering, yes, Dodger is becoming more and more religious as the story progresses. Really, I think it fits, but perhaps that's just my Narnia muse talking. lol. It _will_, however, play an important role later on in the story.

I think, at this rate, I'll have over ten chapters for this! Yay! Wish me luck!


	8. Thrice

_A/N: _I'm so sorry for the extremely late update! I've been so busy with school, end-of-year exams, summer college classes, summer AP homework, other fics (plus, I'm on vacation with family right now and have been trying to get this up for the last few days)... Gosh, I'm _tired_! XD

The chapter title refers to the fact that this is the third time Dodger's 'gutted' Oliver: first was in kidnapping Oliver, twice was last chapter (agreeing to and carrying out Sykes' plan), and thrice was now, when he has to report his findings to Sykes.

In this scene in the movie, there is a part where Dodger asks Sykes for a half-guinea in exchange for the information he's passed. I omitted this from my fic because, honestly, even in the movie it felt _so _out of place (at least for me, who focused on the Dodger/Oliver friendship factor throughout the whole thing)! I mean, if Dodge were _really _Oliver's friend (which he is), he wouldn't sing just because he's a tad poor! _Seriously_! So please, for those who like that scene, I'm begging you to _read this_, and understand why I didn't add it in! Thank you.

_Disclaimer_: I don't own "Oliver Twist"/Oliver Twist. ABC, etc., and the great Charles Dickens do, respectively. If I owned either, there would have been even _more _Oliver/Dodger friendship evidence than there already is!

* * *

This chapter was inspired by:

Dodger scrambles from the horse stall and pushes through the crowded streets.

It doesn't even matter that the half-guinea has disappeared.

No amount of money is worth the life of that boy.

* * *

Even knowing he was being followed, Dodger never thought it would come to this. After all, being corralled into an empty horse stall by a drunken assassin out for his best friend and surrogate Mother's blood was never the direction he'd seen his life taking.

"_Well_?" Sykes demanded, teeth gritted and body as close to Dodger's as it could possibly get (the boy knew a few good women—and even men—who would faint at such a sight). "What'd you get? Is she betrayin' me like I know she is?"

Sykes' eyes were so hazy with intoxication that Dodger silently wondered how the man was even still standing. A bubbling started in his stomach, almost as if his body were warning him. How ironically appropriate.

He'd been cornered into doing this job, and if he wanted his best friends alive and (God willing) happy, he now had to tell the truth of Nancy's scheming and Oliver's eventual rescue. He could only pray they would understand when everything was said and done. (And oddly enough, though never having been very religious, prayer had been coming through for him lately.)

But for the sake of Oliver's faith in him, Dodger prayed with all of his heart that time would not come anytime soon—or better yet, never come at all.

Swallowing thickly, Dodger at last replied icily, "She went over to Bet's, and they walked to work together. That's _all_." He reached up to fix his jacket collar, eyes modeling a mysterious sheen. "Now, can a bloke be left to finish his afternoon stroll in peace?"

Apparently, Sykes didn't think appreciate such tom-foolery, for he grabbed the hands messing with the collar and twisted the fingers in irregular, painful directions. Dodger gasped at the pain, but made no other noise.

"I mean it, Dodger," Sykes growled savagely, taking the teenager's collar in a vice grip and hoisting Dodger several feet off the ground. The boy had to fight to catch even the smallest breath, and no matter how much he struggled or kicked or tried to yell for help, he knew there was no way out. Sykes grinned maliciously. "I've known you too long, Jack. You're lyin' to me." His expression went vicious again. "I _know _you are! You're tryin' to save Nancy's hide as well as that brat's, and _I won't stand for it_!"

He fiercely shook Dodger in time with each emphasized word, and when the shaking finally stopped, the boy's head slammed into the wall. The black spots resulting from this, combined with the shortness of breath, left the teen with very little to work with.

This was bad. Very, very bad. At the moment Dodger was extremely vulnerable, and it would only take Sykes a few well-placed punches or a single bullet to take the pickpocket out if he really wanted.

Meaning escape plans were out of the question.

So he did the next best thing.

"I'm not…lying, I…swear," Dodger rasped out with what little breath he could garner. "I don't care…if you don't…believe me, but it's…the truth, Sykes."

The rage in the man's eyes only burned brighter, and Dodger wished for the umpteenth time that the man would just get what he deserved—like a bullet through the head or the rare public hanging, the kind dealt to only the worst of the worst.

True, Dodger was a street kid, run out at nine years old by his worthless Father shortly after his Mother's death.

True, his first friend out on the streets had been a young girl with a job where she gave of herself and with a beau who convinced her it was all she was good for.

True, he had joined a gang of pickpockets and chosen to call their disgusting, dilapidated hideout a home.

But he'd be damned if anyone hurt those he loved while he still breathed.

"Don't you_ dare_ lie to me, boy," Sykes snarled, reinforcing his hold on Dodger's collar. "You'd better tell me the truth _right now_, or I swear you can forget our deal." Dodger tried to hide it, but he tensed as Sykes leaned in until their noses were nearly touching. "But don't think Nancy and Twist are off the hook," Sykes sneaked in, clenching his teeth as his wild eyes twinkled murderously, "'cause if you make that fateful choice, I'm gonna make you _watch_ as I murder 'em with my bare hands."

One look at his face told Dodger he wasn't kidding in the slightest (not that he ever was), and the seventeen-year-old had to close his eyes and force himself to swallow the swiftly-rising bile in his throat.

There was no way he could tell Sykes the truth, but if he didn't… If he lied again and Sykes saw straight through him as he had time and time again… Either way there was a rather large chance that at least one of them would end up dead, no matter how hard he tried to prevent it (and God knew he was trying as hard as was possible)…

Once again, he found himself between a rock and a hard place. That seemed to be happening an awful lot lately.

Slowly lifting his eyes to peer into the worthless git's, Dodger curled his lips back and tried to look as menacing as possible. His mind racing and heart pounding, he took one second to do a once-over of Sykes' face (and mind and black heart, just for good measure) before making his decision.

"Nance," he struggled even to get her name—and such a beautiful name it was, and such a beautiful girl belonging to it—past his chapped, trembling lips, "went to Mr. Brownlow's to try to find a way to sneak Oliver back over. They're meeting tonight at midnight, London Bridge."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished with all he might have been to suck them back in and erase them from memory; or better yet, he wished some miracle would happen where both Nancy and Oliver came out of this safe and Sykes came out dead. He wished for _anything_ but this torturous agony that came with betrayal—and unwilling, blackmailed betrayal at that.

And what a perfect way to break him from his thoughts: the next thing Dodger knew, he was lying amongst a stock of previously-neatly-stacked hay bales about five feet away from where he and Sykes had just been "negotiating." Looking up, he found a Cheshire Cat-grin on Sykes' face that could scare the daylights out of anyone, and he felt the blood rush from his face.

Bill Sykes only got that look when he was going out for his own blood, when the killing was his and his alone.

Oh, dear Lord…_Oliver_,_ Nancy_!

Such mind-numbing panic drove instinct to the forefront; a faulty mistake, for not a moment after scrambling to his feet he was back on the floor. Feeling his hurt ankle throbbing, he looked back to see his bandages had burst open and the wound had reopened, sending crimson blood streaming. Glancing up, Sykes watched the thick red with a fascination akin to only mass murderers and the insane (Dodger well thought he qualified for both).

"Bit of a weakling, are we, Jack?" the man taunted in a silkily-impish, almost dazed voice that clearly conveyed how very much he was enjoying all of this. "I've been wanting to kill you for _years_," a grimy finger made a slow slicing gesture under Dodger's chin, and the emphasis involved drawing a thin line of blood, "but I've never had the chance till now…"

And just when Dodger swore if Sykes didn't just do it already he'd do it himself, the man slipped a half-guinea into his hand before standing, eyes a smoldering of embers and jaw line taut. There was killing to be done.

Turning away from Dodger, Sykes fixed his coat, nodded to a passing couple, and shot off into the afternoon as if nothing had happened.

And just like that, it was over. The confrontation ended, the truth out, two unsuspecting victims awaiting their deaths.

Dodger swore he was in Hell.

And then, something clicked.

Oliver… Nancy… Two unsuspecting victims… Mr. Brownlow at London Bridge… Midnight…

Oh, _God_…!

Clambering to his feet without even a backward glance or wince at his injury, Dodger left the worthless half-guinea to the beggar children as he fled as fast as he could across town.

If he could just get to Oliver in time…just get there quickly enough to hide him or run away with him or...or _anything _but have him face Sykes alone! The poor child would be dead before the hour was up!

Nothing more could be said for him than this: he loved the Twist boy dearly. With all of his heart and soul.

* * *

~Dodger never asked to be Oliver's life or death, but he'd choose life every time.~

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_A/N: _Sykes' line about wanting to kill Dodge is actually from the movie. I'm not sure if it's exact since I'm across-country and don't have the movie with me (and as far as I know it's not on You Tube yet), but I think I pretty much got it! Maybe a word or so off, but oh, well! XD

If this isn't as good as usual, I'm really tired, trying to get used to a time-zone change, and because of these things I haven't edited the second half of the chapter yet! Sorry!

Thanks for reading, as always!


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